


Not Like Everyone Else

by Jonerys4Life



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Jon Snow, Bending (Avatar), But they still love each other, Dark Jon Snow, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Firebender Daenerys, Jon Snow Knows Something, Northern Civil War, OOC Ned Stark, OOC Robb Stark, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Slow Burn, Targaryen Family Tension, Tension Between Jon and Robb, Waterbender Jon, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonerys4Life/pseuds/Jonerys4Life
Summary: An Avatar: The Last Airbender AU, centered on Jon and Daenerys as they journey to find themselves, and each other, amidst the heartache of family tension, destruction of war, and dangers of attaining power.~~~Jon began the bout on the defensive, blocking and dodging strikes with far greater success than he had previously.  A simple glancing parry, a well-timed roll under an overly forceful strike, and a quick boot to the back of stumbling legs had Jon with his sword at the nape of Robb’s neck.  It was more skill by far than he had displayed in previous contests, and both Master Rodrik and his brother seemed stunned for words.~~~Dany had never heard her mother call Father by name so callously, nor heard her sound so angry.  It was a quiet sort of anger. The kind of fury that was kept suppressed, simmering just under the surface and only seething out in a boiling heat when one’s mind was moving too quickly to keep it contained.  Dany couldn’t tell if she ought to be frightened or awed by the power radiating off her mother in that moment. It was so similar to the kind she felt when Father had fought at the full extent of his strength.Bile threatened to rise in her throat at the memory.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 123
Kudos: 140





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeporcelain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeporcelain/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well...It’s just that Mother says a b- Mother says someone like you would never be able to bend.”
> 
> Oh... The words were spoken gently, though Robb could not meet his eyes as he said them. Jon loved that about Robb. Even if his easy confidence had Jon pouting from behind him at times, he always tried his best to be kind when it mattered most. Jon couldn’t help the soft smile that grew on his lips as he took in his brother’s obvious rephrasing of the Queen’s words. Bastard . The word held no weight to one born a Prince and yet Robb could not bring himself to say it. To Jon though, it was an iron ball shackled round his ankle, ever threatening to pull him down through snow and dirt to snuff out any dreams for life he might otherwise have.
> 
> “You can say it you know.” Jon said finally, his voice weaker than he would have liked. “She called me a bastard. But I know - I know you wouldn’t mean it like that so...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first real attempt at writing creatively. I've been an avid reader in this tag for some time now, maybe you've seen my comments on other stories, so I wanted to try my hand at writing and give back to the community that has brought me so much joy. It was a slow process, but I'm pretty happy with the end result of this chapter all things considered. I hope any readers feel the same!
> 
> I'd also just like to give a little shoutout to likeporcelain, who has become a good friend over the past couple months and given me some very helpful writing advice whenever I've asked. His work is all amazing and if you haven't you should go check it out!

# Jon I

**Winterfell 293**

Jon couldn’t wait for his tenth nameday. 

Despite having just begun, the feast around him was already a lively and joyous affair. Lords and ladies alike shared in the celebrations, all drinking greedily from a seemingly endless supply of bitter northern ale. Jon knew no such festivity would occur for his own tenth nameday, and certainly not with the presence of prominent noble families like those here tonight. Nothing of the sort had occurred for his ninth, which had only just past two moons ago, at the end of the year prior. 

Still, it had been a happy day, Jon recalled. Robb allowed him to pick what games they played, and was barely even annoyed when Jon proclaimed himself as King Jon Stark in their mock battle. Father had even instructed the cooks to make blackberry pie with cream - his favourite dessert - at dinner that evening, before coming to Jon’s chambers to gift him with a new fur cloak and a carved bow finished finely with direwolf engravings.

Yet even without the allure of a grand feast, or long list of important guests bearing fine gifts, Jon was immeasurably excited for his tenth nameday. It was the age when northern children were usually deemed ready to begin training in waterbending. Of course not everyone was capable of doing so. In fact, most weren’t. But Jon had always hoped he would be able to bend. There was a strange sense of longing he felt when watching others waterbend, as if his wish to do the same were more a need than a want. Jon didn’t think he was special in that regard though. It seemed to him that every boy in the north dreamt of nothing more than becoming a waterbending warrior one day.

Robb was no exception to this, talking eagerly about it with Jon almost every day for as long as he could remember. But beyond the simple desires of most boys, Jon knew there had been much pressure on Robb’s being a bender. He was to be the king one day, after all, and the North had not successfully been led by a man other than a waterbending Stark since the Bolton Red Kings submitted to the Stark Kings of Winter thousands of years ago.

Jon looked over to where Lord Bolton and his son - Domeric, Robb had said his name was - were sitting at the table right below the one seating the royal family. The pale, milky grey hue of the lord’s eyes made them unlike any he had seen before. While Jon thought nothing of it, being no stranger to unusual eye colours himself, Robb seemed particularly wary of the man and his gaze. In fact, when confiding in Jon after greeting the Boltons upon their arrival at Winterfell two days prior, Robb had said it was particularly unsettling to be regarded by the man’s stoney stare.

At the time, Jon had found it quite amusing how Robb seemed so frightened of the man when recounting the meeting, and had struggled to resist the urge to jape at his brother’s expense. But Jon had no way of confirming Robb’s words, not having met Lord Bolton himself. He was not so important that a Lord would have need to meet him formally. Not that Jon minded - it was easier to stay unnoticed anyway, avoiding the intrigued looks and uncomfortable questions that so easily followed him when he didn’t.

This tendency to remain unnoticed, however, came with it the ability to observe freely. What Jon had seen so far tonight only confirmed that the Lord of the Dreadfort was a strange man. He was cold and impassive, not partaking in rowdy conversation with the bawdy Lord Umber, brazen Lady Mormont, or boisterous Lord Manderly. In fact Jon had seen the man sipping delicately from the same goblet of wine the entire evening as he spoke quietly with the severe Lady Dustin and greying Lord Karstark.

Aside from the coolness of his demeanour, Jon saw no reason to be mistrustful of the man. He was soft-spoken and well mannered, and at least to Jon’s untrained eyes had shown all the proper courtesy and grace when addressing the king and queen. That was more than could be said for a small number of the other guests in attendance, who seemed to be oddly stiff when greeting Queen Catelyn at the feast that evening - a sharp juxtaposition to the universal respect given to the king.

Glancing up at the copper-haired queen, Jon wondered why some seemed so cold towards her. She was unique, as far as northern queens went. Previously, all had been benders themselves, daughters of noble northern houses blessed similarly to the Starks with the ability to bend. But Robb’s mother was not a bender. She was not even of the North, and had no blood of the First Men running through her veins. 

As Jon’s eyes flitted away from the queen and to Robb beside her, he could see the older boy starting a familiar argument with their father, pointing at a horn of ale. Though unable to hear from his position further back in the hall, Jon could easily imagine the words Robb might use:

“I’m grown enough now Father, near a man grown. I can drink ale, just one horn. Please?” 

Robb had tried to convince their father of this before, though Jon was unsure why his brother was so eager to drink the bitter brew. Still, even now, despite Robb’s wide pleading blue eyes and fists clenched around the arm of his chair, the King only chuckled and shook his head, patting his eldest on the shoulder before turning back to his own meal. 

Jon cursed himself for being unable to help stealing wistful glances up at the pretty picture the royal family made without him. The king and queen, resplendent in royal robes and crowns. Robb dressed in fine leathers and velvets between his parents, now speaking animatedly about his bending. Princess Sansa, already on her way to becoming the embodiment of a perfect lady, sitting demurely next to her mother in a new green gown as she took measured bites of stew. And Arya and Bran, giggling with each other as they fought to tear at a large piece of crusty bread with little hands.

Jon often wished that he could sit amongst them, become a true part of their family. The queen, however, had made it quite clear to him on many an occasion in the lead up to the feast that he was to keep his presence hidden. It would not be proper, she had said, for the visiting lords and ladies to see him so close with their future king. Still, he allowed himself to imagine sitting between Father and his younger siblings, turning freely between talk of business in the Northern Kingdom and of games or pranks that could be played on the morrow. 

As this wish played through his mind, Jon’s eyes flitted between each member of the happy family, trying not to linger too long lest he be caught staring. He couldn’t help but watch, however, as the King smiled down at Robb once more, the corners of his eyes crinkling with obvious love for his eldest son. The gentle stroke of a hand through wayward auburn curls had a tightness grow in Jon’s chest, forcing him to turn away lest seeing more let the discomfort grow unbearable. 

Looking down at his own meal, Jon stabbed at a lone sausage with more force than needed, the prongs of his fork clinking loudly against the tin plate. A few startled faces turned to him briefly at the sound, but Jon simply ignored them, head tilted down and staring unblinkingly into the table, barely tasting each bite of greasy meat.

His unfocused staring was nearly enough to convince himself that the wetness gathering in his eyes was from something other than the constant ache of the longing he felt to see that same, pure, look directed at him. It wasn’t that Jon’s father didn’t treat him kindly. King Eddard even showed him love in the rare instances that they were alone. But where the king’s deep grey eyes were filled with only tender affection when he smiled at Robb, a painful mix of grief and guilt often tarnished that when he did the same to Jon. 

Jon often wondered if his father thought of his mother when he looked at him like that, but whenever Jon would muster the courage to ask about her, the older man refused to speak on it. 

“Not today Jon. I’ll tell you when the time is right.” 

He would always respond in the same strained voice, sighing heavily and patting Jon on the shoulder, never quite able to meet the disappointment in his son’s violet eyes. Perhaps they were an uncomfortable reminder of her, and Jon couldn’t help but think that perhaps the King didn’t want to be reminded of what was surely his greatest mistake.

Sometimes, Jon imagined that his father had loved this woman he refused to speak of. That had she not died on the birthing bed the three of them would have been a family. Deep down he knew this was a fantasy. Still, it was a fantasy Jon often tortured himself with on lonely nights like that of Robb’s tenth namedey, where a pillow clutched tightly to his chest was the only comfort from the wracking sobs that consumed him.

  
  
~~~

The following day dawned to an overcast sky. After an early morning meal for which Jon was allowed to sit by his brother once more, he had been near dragged out to the training yard by an over eager Robb shouting at him with bright eyes and a wide, toothy smile. 

“Come on! Come on! You have to watch my lesson! Master Rodrik says I’m going to become as good as Father!”.

It had been some time since Jon had spectated Robb’s lessons. Ever since the arrival of the northern nobility, Jon had thought it best to stay out of their way, not wishing to interact with them if he could avoid it. The instances in which this had failed never proved to be too uncomfortable - most of the lords being polite at the very least - but Jon still found it easier to keep to himself where possible.

Surprisingly to Jon, some of the kinder lords had even said that Jon himself would surely be a waterbender like his brother someday, and that, should he prove talented enough, he might even earn a place in the household guard for a lord. That he would be a waterbender was one of the few things Jon felt confident in. Nevertheless this affirmation was encouraging to hear, and only made him more eager for the arrival of his own tenth nameday whereupon he would be given the chance to prove himself a bender.

There was no guarantee that the outcome would be as Jon thought, of course. Even for Robb, a trueborn Stark, it had not been a certainty that he would possess the ability that made the Starks and the lords of their vassal houses so powerful. Prior to beginning training some months before today, however, the crown prince had spoke with such assured confidence about his future as a bender that Jon had seriously doubted he wouldn’t succeed in proving himself capable right away. Everything else came easy to Robb, and Jon saw no reason for this to be different.

Waterbender or not though, the sword was what most boys began their training with. Jon and Robb had been no exception, swinging sticks at each other under the careful eye of Master Rodrik since the time they could walk. Robb had taken to it naturally and, being both older and bigger than Jon, was the better swordsman of the two. After a particularly resounding victory some years after the start of their training, it became apparent that this disparity in skill wasn’t exactly surprising to Robb.

“Don’t worry brother, I’m older, so it’s only natural that I be better than you.” He had said, holding out his gloved hand to help Jon up from the dirt. 

Jon expected it was more than just his age that made Robb feel such a thing was natural. 

His cheeks flushed from something other than exertion when he noticed Father watching from his usual place up on the balcony above the yard. He would be there sometimes, simply observing their progress with a soft smile. For that comment, though, he had deemed it necessary to speak out, warning Robb against being prideful, insisting that if he wasn’t careful it was a sure way to find their positions reversed the next time they fought.

Not wanting to fall even further behind Robb, and a little high on his father’s subtle insinuation that he could one day best his brother, Jon swore to train hard and press forward. If he wasn’t to have the older boy’s immediate talent, surely he could catch up with practice. Often for hours after they were dismissed by Master Rodrik, and Robb was swept away by his mother in a flurry of praise and affection, Jon would sneak off on his lonesome to the Godswood to train. The calming presence of the weirwood tree he always found himself under allowed him to forget Robb’s boasts, Queen Catelyn’s loathing glares, and the sadness of his Father’s eyes. 

Hours could pass as he repeated whatever new technique master Rodrik had taught them that day. Jon decided to pay special attention to his footwork after Robb was admonished for mocking its importance in a lesson dedicated to it. At first the movements felt slow and clumsy, so Jon was tentative and purposeful with each step he took, as if he were attempting to climb a craggy mountain in the dark. Jon knew the focus on this aspect of his swordplay arose out of a petty desire to prove better than his older brother, but that desire proved a fruitful motivator in those early months of slow progress. 

Unexpectedly, the repetition of each new step - circling one way then the other, or pressing forwards then retreating back - began to grow on him, so that Jon would enjoy them without so much as a thought to besting Robb. The subtle combination of previously distinct motions began to evolve into something more graceful over time, flowing free and smooth through his body like freshly melted snow down that mountain he had struggled to climb in months past. How the simple movements affected him became almost dreamlike, clearing his mind from the distracting fog of thought such that Jon eventually felt as if he were dancing rather than training with the sword. Not that he would never admit such a thing aloud. Especially not to Robb, however true it may be. 

As with most things Jon quickly realised his progress was best kept hidden. Going unnoticed was simply how Jon survived at Winterfell and forgetting this always proved a mistake. Yet Jon was so proud of his progress that he felt restless with the need to test it against Robb, and decided to do so in one of their daily free spars at the end of Master Rodrik’s lessons. Jon began the bout on the defensive, blocking and dodging strikes with far greater success than he had previously. A simple glancing parry, a well timed roll under an overly forceful strike, and a quick boot to the back of stumbling legs had Jon with his sword at the nape of Robb’s neck. It was more skill by far than he had displayed in previous contests, and both Master Rodrik and his brother seemed stunned for words. 

“Do you yield?” Jon finally panted, breathless but grinning. 

A pregnant pause passed before the words of surrender slipped through Robb’s lips. 

“Aye. Aye, I yield.” 

They were spoken quietly, but Jon lowered his sword, resting the tip on the dirt below. Standing up slowly, Robb turned to observe Jon with slightly furrowed brows, eyes flitting up and down his smaller frame as if confused where its sudden strength came from.

“Well fought, brother,” he finally said, with what was clearly a pained smile. 

Those simple words of recognition he’d longed for sounded sullen to Jon’s ears, tainting any happiness that could otherwise be drawn from them. Dinner that night served only to worsen his feelings toward victory. He had arrived at the great hall worn and hungry, excited for a warm meal. Taking his first bite, however, left him gagging, as his plate was so heavily salted that he had to spit out the large mouthful of potato and pheasant. One confused glance to the high table and he was met with the queen’s hateful glare, her blue eyes icy in with unconcealed distaste. Jon went to bed hungry that night, hugging his pillow close even as it grew wet with his tears. That familiar yet distant dream taunted him once more as sleep finally took him. A mother to call his own. Father smiling down at him, eyes full of pride instead of shame. Yet when he woke Jon could do nothing but accept the reality he lived in. He didn’t try to best Robb in a spar again. 

  
  
~~~

A wet snowflake on the tip of his nose cleared Jon’s mind of those memories, prompting him to hold his cloak tight to protect from the light flurry of summer snows as he hurried after Robb towards the training yard.

“It’s a shame we won’t get to train in bending together Jon.” Robb said some minutes after Jon had caught up, breaking their companionable silence. 

_What?_ With furrowed brows his gaze shot up to see Robb’s own contemplative frown. 

“Why not? At the end of the year I’ll reach my tenth nameday just as you have now.”

The words slipped out as a rush of confusion washed over Jon, halting his movement as he tried to process what Robb had said. It just didn’t make sense. Jon had always felt sure that he would be a waterbender. In fact his mind had always just assumed he would be, never really stopping to doubt it. _So what would stop them from training together?_ Robb stopped in front of Jon, sighing as his hands fidgeted nervously in front of him.

“Well...It’s just that Mother says a b- Mother says someone like you would never be able to bend.”

 _Oh..._ The words were spoken gently, though Robb could not meet his eyes as he said them. Jon loved that about Robb. Even if his easy confidence had Jon pouting from behind him at times, he always tried his best to be kind when it mattered most. Jon couldn’t help the soft smile that grew on his lips as he took in his brother’s obvious rephrasing of the Queen’s words. _Bastard_. The word held no weight to one born a Prince and yet Robb could not bring himself to say it. To Jon though, it was an iron ball shackled round his ankle, ever threatening to pull him down through snow and dirt to snuff out any dreams for life he might otherwise have.

“You can say it you know.” Jon said finally, his voice weaker than he would have liked. “She called me a bastard. But I know - I know you wouldn’t mean it like _that_ so...”

Robb’s normally bright eyes seemed dull as he looked down at Jon. 

“Aye you have the right of it. But you don’t like it and it doesn’t matter to me anyway.”

His voice was nearly a whisper, and Jon could only nod stiffly, turning to continue their walk into the yard. 

Jon sat in silence along the fencing of the yard as Robb received his instructions from Master Rodrik. A long trough of water had been placed between them, and the King was demonstrating the basic technique of quickly freezing and unfreezing the water. He had planned to pay close attention and learn what he could by listening, but Robb’s words still echoed loudly in his head muting even the voices of an excited Bran and Arya beside him. 

_Why wouldn’t he be able to bend?_ The question was all Jon’s mind seemed able to focus on. He knew that noble families of the north were gifted with the ability of waterbending. Father said it was a blessing from the Old Gods to those houses deemed worthy. But sometimes even the smallfolk were able to bend. In his lessons with Maester Luwin Jon learned that those boys and girls were taken in by their lords to train as guards and healers respectively. They were treated and fed well, so most parents were happy to let their children go in the hopes that they would have a better life than what could be found in the fields. 

Master Rodrik was once one of those boys. Taken in by the King’s father, the man had become a respected bender and swordsman, and now held the position of Winterfell’s Master at Arms. His nephew Jory had even risen to Captain of the Guard. Yet neither of them were bastards of a King. Jon knew not what the histories said of his peers. He was sure, though, that searching for such answers would be met with the suspicion of Maester Luwin, and the wrath of the queen. 

_The queen..._ Jon sneered. _What would she know anyway?_ There were no waterbenders in the Riverlands, and she was the first of her people to marry into the north. The first non-waterbender queen the north had ever had. Perhaps like always she was simply trying to put Jon down in a twisted attempt to ensure he was never a threat to Robb. Jon’s stomach rolled at the thought of threatening Robb’s future reign. No. Even if he did become a powerful bender he would only want to help his brother, not hurt him. Still though, there was a part of Jon which burned at even the suggestion that Robb should get to bend but he shouldn’t. Surely the Gods would not punish him so harshly, leaving him cursed to sit and watch as each of his siblings surpassed him one by one.

“Jon, Arya, Bran, look look I did it!”

Robb’s excitement thankfully shook Jon from his thoughts, his head rising to watch as the water in the trough froze and unfroze in time with the flick of Robb’s wrist. If his brother had caught him ‘brooding’ - as his siblings had come to call it - instead of watching him learn a new waterbending technique Jon knew he’d never hear the end of it.

Jon put on a smile as Robb looked over to him, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. The feeling of elation when spectating Robb in the weeks prior were no longer present, replaced by a bitter taste in his mouth. The pair of them had been equally excited that Robb had been allowed to learn bending prior to the day he turned 10. Father had told Robb, before Robb had told Jon, that this was to ensure not only that he was able, but confident in some basic techniques prior to the arrival of the visiting northern lords. Jon wondered if so many would have been invited had the unthinkable happened, and Robb had been unable to bend. 

Fortunately, when the king himself first began to instruct Robb all those weeks ago it didn’t take long for relief to bloom on his face as his first-born proved himself a true son of the north despite the Tully looks he had inherited from his mother. Some years ago, Jon had overheard two of the older guards discussing whether or not the King’s children would even be benders, making crude comments about the queen in the process. It was a rare occasion where he had felt sympathy for her, and Jon was sure she had been just as relieved as the King with Robb’s success that day.

Now though, Jon couldn’t quite bring himself to feel the same. He was still happy for his brother, truly, but after their discussion that morning any second-hand excitement he had previously felt for Robb’s bending was fleeting, replaced swiftly by a strange tightness in his stomach and a forced smile on his lips. This feeling was not altogether unfamiliar, Jon soon realised. It was just the same as when he’d first found out the difference between he and Robb. When Queen Catelyn had made it clear that Robb would be King and he would be _nothing_. No poor attempt at consolation from Father had soothed the queerness he felt in Robb’s presence for weeks after that truth had been laid bare before him.

Theon, Father’s ward, would say he was jealous. Bitter that Robb was better than him. Jon thought Theon could shut his mouth. He didn’t envy Robb. They were equals in lessons with Maester Luwin, though it was Robb who would use the knowledge gained to rule a kingdom. They were equals astride a horse, though it was Robb who would ride at the head of the north’s armies. At the sword Jon was even Robb’s better, though it often seemed that no one else would ever know it. And, when Jon allowed himself to think on such petty comparisons, he smiled secretly at his appearance in the looking glass, knowing that aside from the striking purple of his eyes he looked more the son of King Eddard than Robb. So, no - Jon was not envious of Robb. He loved him. He did, he did.

It took some days for Jon to climb back atop the fence around the yard, and spectate Robb’s training once more. Having dulled himself to the feeling of frustration at watching his brother do something he himself may never be allowed to try, Jon found himself growing increasingly intrigued by the process of waterbending. Just like his training with a sword, the motions required to manipulate water reminded him of a dance more than a means for violence. This growing fascination with bending only served to increase Jon’s anxiety, however. It wasn’t that he was afraid he couldn’t bend, but the thought of being denied the chance to even find out felt crushing. It just wouldn’t be fair.

~~~

Some days after the last guests had left the castle, Jon came upon Robb going over one of the techniques he’d learnt that day. Jon had been able to watch him again that morning, and could tell that Robb had grown frustrated with the particular set of motions, huffing each time Master Rodrik corrected him on it.

“You’re still moving too stiffly.” Jon said from his usual place on the fence.

His words were not meant to ridicule, but Robb stopped and scowled.

“What would you know? You won’t ever even be a bender.”

The sharpness of his tone soured Jon’s mood instantly. Though the reminder of their conversation the day of Robb’s freezing lesson stung more.

“Well you won’t be one either if you keep doing what you are now.” Jon muttered at the ground, voice only just loud enough for Robb to hear. 

The prince huffed out a grunt in reply, rolling his eyes before turning back to repeating the move.

“I’m only trying to help you.” Jon started again, his voice now cold as the snow dusting his cloak.

Robb stopped once more, rolling his head to look to Jon with furrowed brows and slitted eyes. 

“What would you have me do differently? Hmm? Bless me with your wisdom, brother. Please.” Robb bit back, arms outstretched as if to waiting to accept Jon’s advice.

“You’re trying to make each individual step perfect but that’s just making everything all disjointed.”Jon replied, choosing to ignore the bitter sarcasm of Robb’s request. “You need each movement to go into the next more smoothly.” 

“I know that! If you think it’s so easy I’d like to see you try.”

Robb’s voice was almost a shout now. Nearby heads turned curiously at the disturbance, and a startled crow flew off into the breezy afternoon air.

Jon set his jaw stubbornly. Leaping off the fence into the yard he took up position beside Robb. His eyes slipped closed as he pictured the movements in his head, and his body soon followed. Each forward step of his feet was in time with the fluid motion of his arms - a graceful circling of wrists and elbows moving from his sides to their finishing point outstretched in front of him.

Breathing in deeply as he came to a stop, Jon stood up straight and turned to look back at Robb, a small, satisfied grin on ticking up at his lips. He’d never seen Robb look so stunned before. The expression was fleeting, though, for Robb’s face hardened quickly under Jon’s inspection, parted lips pressing into a firm line and wide eyes narrowing.

Jon prepared to needle Robb about how it was in fact _so easy_. It was a rare occasion he was afforded the upper hand over the older boy and he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to make a taunting remark in the face of Robb’s repeated failure. But before the words could escape his lips, a sharp voice pierced the air. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing, boy?”

The queen’s voice was unmistakable and Jon felt himself deflate on instinct. His short-lived bout of bravado ended before it really began, his head hanging low and shoulders hunching over. Where he was so ready to taunt Robb just moments before, his lips now felt stuck shut. Robb too remained silent beside him.

“Well?” Her voice was shrill, shaking with barely suppressed rage. “I asked you a question, bastard. Answer me.”

“I - I was just…” 

Jon’s own voice was small, trailing off as his mind went blank, unable to come up with an appropriate answer - or any answer at all. Queen Catelyn had always had this effect on him. For as long as he could remember her presence sent uncomfortable tremors through his body, and his heart racing.

“You were what? Spit it out. Go on.”

Jon glanced briefly to Robb for help, but his brother’s eyes were aimed at the ground. Robb had stood up for Jon at times before, when his mother would try to separate them from playing or eating or studying together. It was clear now that this would not be one of those times. Jon was on his own. Steeling himself, fists clenched tightly at his sides and nails biting sharply into his palms, Jon turned his violet gaze to the bright blue of the queen’s.

“I was just showing Robb how he could improve upon a technique Master Rodrik taught him today.”

The words were said with more confidence than he felt, a small fire burning in his chest that he had never felt before. Jon realised he was angry at the queen - more angry than he was afraid. It was her fault he couldn’t be a bender. It was her fault that he might not get the chance to even try. A prideful part of Jon wondered whether he might even be better at it than Robb. The relative ease with which he performed the motions Robb had struggled with only made that seem more likely. But it could never be. In fact, Jon was sure the queen would hate nothing more than for that to be the case, and her appearance now did nothing to lessen that certainty.

“You ungrateful - you live in this castle out of the goodness of the King’s heart and you think it your place to teach his son anything? You think yourself so superior that the traditions of the north don’t apply to you?”

It was almost humorous to Jon - a northern boy since birth, at least as far as he knew - receiving a lecture on northern tradition from a southron. He wanted to needle her for this, remind her that, in some ways, she was just as much an _other_ here at Winterfell as he was. Yet the queen was still an imposing figure to the small stature of a nine nameday old Jon. She loomed over him like a Dornish viper, ready to lash out at any perceived provocation, her words waiting behind her tongue like a spit of venom. 

“I was not truly waterbending, your Grace, merely demonstrating the motions required to do so. I broke no tradition.”

Jon ended up replying curtly, his tone cold and his use of her title mocking. It was a mistake, he knew. Antagonising her like that would only serve to make his situation worse. But he felt so deeply about this that it seemed as though there were no other option. He _needed_ to become a waterbender. The idea of not doing so simply felt wrong. He didn’t know why he was so certain of this, but If he had to suppress his fear of Robb’s mother, and likely give her reason to make his life worse than she already did… so be it.

Her response was quick, hand lashing up to grip his chin between long nails.

“If you dare speak to me like that again I will make it my life’s work to have you thrown from this castle. Do not doubt me on that boy.”

Jon felt himself flinch at her touch, anger and renewed fear mixing such that tremors ran through him once more. He could only nod stiffly in response, anything further dying on his pursed lips. The queen seemed intent to stare him down indefinitely, her gaze piercing through his own, pinning him in place. 

Jon was not sure how long she looked at him like this. Eventually though, she released her grip, surely revealing red marks and the indents of her nails. With a parting look of disgust and hate, she marched past him, taking Robb by the arm and walking them towards the royal chambers.

“Come now Robb, you need not listen to his nonsense. You really should stay away from him, how many times do I have to tell you?”

Jon heard the queen’s whispers to Robb. She had surely meant him to. Still, it stung to see the slight nod of Robb’s head at her words. This betrayal was overwhelmed, however, by a greater pain. By the familiar kind of discomfort that tugged longingly in his chest as he watched Robb’s mother hold him close.

Jon stood alone as he watched them walk away, eyes unblinking the whole while. He cursed the wind as tears drew cold tracks down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked that! I'll try my best make sure the wait won't be too long for the next chapter.
> 
> If anyone is unfamiliar with the Avatar universe, and has questions regarding that feel free to leave a comment! Any other feedback is also much appreciated, as is a kudos if you enjoyed :) It'll be good motivation to get the next chapter written faster.
> 
> Until next time!


	2. Daenerys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys trains with the king and has breakfast with the queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left positive feedback on my first chapter! It was more than I expected by far, and was a real motivation to keep writing. It's because of you all that I'm back sooner than I could have imagined with Dany's first chapter - I hope you enjoy!

# Daenerys I

**Kings Landing 293**

“MORE!”

Her arms were like lead, heavy and sore.

“HIT ME. HIT ME. HIT ME!”

Each consecutive strike slipped lower and lower, fatigue an indomitable foe.

“DON’T DARE DROP YOUR ARMS, I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD STOP.”

She raised her arms, if only just. _Pain is only temporary._ Sweat dripped from her brow, steam rising off the moisture on her skin. 

“I SAID KEEP YOUR ARMS UP OR I’LL BURN YOU MYSELF.”

King Aerys Targaryen’s roars boomed throughout the vast cave, empty but for two. It was a grim place, unpleasant beyond the harsh voice echoing within its confine. The ground was a rough and uneven expanse of terrain. A series of interwoven fissures scarred its surface, dotted with boulders and loose rock of varying size and shape - one could stumble easily if they were not sure of foot. The walls here were nothing more than a jagged series of sloping crags jutting forth from the ground, meeting in a loosely domed ceiling that was spattered with dripping stalactites. A gloom wholly unique to the cavern hung thick in the air, torch smoke mixing with the damp scent of still water such that the room felt at once humid to the skin and dry to the lungs.

Daenerys hardly noticed such things anymore. Scraped knees and twisted ankles had proved a valuable teacher in the early weeks down here. Now, instinct and reflex were her guide, the rocky ground beneath her feet an unfocussed blur to be processed without thought. It was better that way. So engrossed was she in landing a blow to her father that paying mind to anything else, even her footing, was a sure way to lose accuracy and inflame his temper. That was not an option.

Bursts of orange flame shot forth with each jab of her fists, illuminating the dimly lit cavern in strobing flashes of light. She pressed forwards on nimble feet towards her father, hoping to back him into a wall so as to limit his opportunities to dodge. Father would only get hit if he allowed himself to be, she knew, but he expected her maximum effort in both bending and strategy regardless. Daenerys felt she had long passed the point of maximum effort, her arms tiring, slipping lower once more as the surge of strength given by Father’s prior threat waned fast. Her next blast was a poor one, aimed closer to the king’s feet than his chest as it ought to have been.

A growl was all the warning she received before a jet of blue-green flame was propelled towards from across the room. Father had never fired at her with full force before, only ever using cooler orange flames like her own when they sparred. Still, Daenerys had seen the terrible destruction of the Targaryen king’s uniquely coloured fire once before. It was a memory she’d sooner forget, and one that had her freeze momentarily as that same fire rushed towards her. 

Fear was all that gripped her in that first, frozen moment. It was the kind of fear one experienced only once. The kind of fear one feels upon first realisation of their mortality, when the fragility of one’s body is truly understood relative to the harshness of the surrounding world and those who inhabit it. 

The next instant saw an ancient Valyrian mantra run through Daenerys’ mind.

_I must not fear. Fear is the inner-enemy. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration._

Just as Rhaegar had taught her, Daenerys allowed the fear to pass through her. Anger remained. This was not the intended outcome of the mantra, she knew, but the anger was all consuming. It felt good, felt right. She was infuriated by her own weakness, enraged at her father’s reckless strike.

A cry of exertion fuelled by this rage sounded throughout the cavern as her arms rose together in defiance of their pain. Fists clenched, and forearms pressed side by side as if to block a blow to the face, she swung down with unrestrained power, arms sweeping out towards the ground, wrists twisting out as hands opened wide. An explosion of white-orange flame burst forth, swallowing the blue tinted green of her father’s own fireball in an instant. It was more fire by far than she’d ever produced before, and Daenerys was flung back, utterly unprepared for the reciprocal force of her own attack. She could only watch in horror from the ground as the blast flew towards her father, unconcerned by the bruises that were surely blooming upon her rear, or by the stinging pain of skin scraped from her elbows.

Where she expected to find her own horror reflected in her father’s eyes, she saw only glee, the likes of which was a rare sight upon the usually dour king’s face. This glee took the form of a wide, unwavering smile as the king captured her flames within his hands, swirling them around himself until they dispersed into smoking air.

Daenerys breathed heavily, relief coursing through her at her own survival, and at the ease with which the king had diffused her return attack. Father walked over to her briskly, smile still wide on his face. Dany remembered how often he looked at her like that before her training began, back when she was only his little girl, when the pride of the Targaryen house did not rest upon her shoulders. 

She wanted to move before he arrived - lift her head from the floor, at least. Father had little patience for such time wasting as lying on the ground after a fall. Daenerys had learned quickly that the short rest it allowed was not worth the retribution Father always imposed for such laziness. But, like her arms, the rest of her body had given in entirely to exhaustion. She was unable to even turn her head away in shame from the approaching form of her father.

To Daenerys’ surprise though, he knelt down beside her, hand reaching out to support the back of her neck as he lifted her into a sitting position. “That’s it, my little dragon, you did so well, you should be proud of yourself.”

Daenerys could hardly even nod in response. Stiff neck aside, she herself was unsure if she ought to be proud of the power she’d just displayed, especially given the feelings from which it stemmed. Her father’s praise, rare as it was, made for a powerful motivator though, so despite that inner conflict she couldn’t help but preen a little at his words. She’d never seen him so pleased with her before, at least not since the first time he saw her bend at the age of five. 

The next thing she knew, he was picking her up, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back and neck. Daenerys let her head rest upon his shoulder. She had missed such care from her father of late. Up innumerable stairs, and through damp, winding tunnels he carried her, and Dany felt herself drifting in and out of sleep all the while. She hardly felt the maester's hands as he applied soothing balm and bandages to her elbows, nor did she question the cup at her lips as milk of the poppy slipped down her throat, ending the struggle between consciousness and sleep.

~~~

Daenerys dreamt of strange things that night. 

She saw a storm, and a figure caught in it. Perched up high, as if looking out from a tower, she gazed upon an expanse of green grass growing right up to a cliff’s edge, upon which a figure, cloaked in darkness, stood alone. A wall of black clouds approached on gale winds, blowing rain near horizontal. As the encroaching shadow reached the cliff, a crack of thunder boomed and a blast of lightning shot down towards the figure, swallowing them in blinding light.

Green and purple grew on that field of white; fire, she knew well.

She watched next these most beautiful of flames. Vibrant green and deep purple swirled together magnificently, dancing in unison against the backdrop of a sky in twilight. A cold wind swelled soon after, snuffing out green then purple flame alike. Falling ash turned to snow until only a field of white remained once more, a distant pair of icy blue eyes blinking in and out of sight. Somehow, the longer she looked out into that endless expanse of white, the brighter it grew, until it was so blinding that darkness was all that remained.

~~~

For the first time in weeks Daenerys awoke eager to begin the day.

Now accustomed to being roused by the gentle shakes of a handmaid, and the soft, repeated calling of ‘princess’, Dany was surprised to find her chambers quiet and empty. She stirred, her eyes for once allowed to blink open and closed languidly in greeting to the morning sun. As she recalled what day it was, however, rushing to kick away blankets and pillows and climb out of bed, any desire to enjoy waking peacefully on her own was quickly lost to excitement for what the day would bring.

Reaching up, noting the soreness of her arm, Dany pulled gently on the fine rope protruding from the wall beside her bed. Through mechanisms to which she was unaware, it connected somewhere else in the castle, notifying a handmaid that their assistance was required. Too impatient to sit still while she waited, Dany opened the doors to her wardrobe, pulling out dresses in the hopes that one would stand out as the perfect option for greeting her family upon their arrival later that morning. By the time the knock at her door came, and the girl stepped inside at Dany’s beckoning, she had narrowed down her options to a pair: one a soft lavender, and the other a blood red.

“It’s unusual for you to be up so early, Your Grace, is everything alright?”

Dany recognised the voice coming up from behind her as Penny’s, a comely girl five or so years her senior. She was kind and soft-spoken, and quite good at braiding, always making sure to say how lovely she found the pale, silvery-gold of Dany’s hair. 

“Yes Penny, quite alright thank you,” Dany replied shyly in spite of her excitement, still a little unused to having someone other than her mother help her get ready for the day. 

“I’m glad to hear it, princess,” Penny said with a smile, stepping up behind Dany to take down her hair from the loose bun it had been in while she slept.

It was a chore, Dany knew, to wrangle the silky length of her tresses into an acceptable style each morning. But beyond the need to maintain her appearance for the court, Dany loved the tender touch of Penny’s fingers running through her hair as she bathed, even if she would prefer her mother’s hand to any others. As Father had said though, she was on her way to being a woman flowered, and it was no longer appropriate for Mother to attend her each morning like she would a babe.

It had made Dany quite nervous at first, having strangers inside her chambers while she was there herself. Maids came in and out throughout the day, of course, some dusting and sweeping, others changing linens and chamber-pots as needed, while more still ensured her clothes were clean and mended. It was different, though, when they were seeing to her personally, especially when it came to helping her dress. Dany knew that everyone in the castle was aware of the marks upon her arm - surely the rumours of her deformity had spread further throughout the Six Kingdoms - but neither that knowledge, nor Mother’s words of assurance, did anything to assuage the instinct she felt to hide them from the unfamiliar gaze of her handmaids, and anyone else who might see.

Such worries made Dany miss the time when she was small enough to sit on her mother’s lap, listening to her hum one of Rhaegar’s new songs as she stroked a brush through Dany’s hair. Mother hardly seemed to have time for her now days though. When Rhaegar and his family left for Dorne to visit Elia’s home at Sunspeare, Dany thought the two of them would be able to spend more time together. Somehow the opposite turned out to be true. Still, they managed to have breakfast together some mornings, and while it didn’t quite feel as special as their old rituals, Dany took comfort in her mother’s company whenever she was able.

 **“** Now, have you decided which dress you want to wear, Princess?”

Penny’s voice was as delicate as her hands, but Dany could only shake her head in reply, a bashful smile ticking up at her lips.

“Well I think this one is perfect for today,” she continued, unperturbed by Dany’s silent response as she held up the lavender option in front of her.

Dany agreed with the choice, holding out her arms to allow Penny to slip it over the fresh shift she’d just put on, and begin lacing up the back. Red was for court anyway, as Father would say; Targaryen colours showed their dominion over fire, and their rightful place as rulers to any who would stand before them.

With the dress fitted properly, Dany thanked Penny for her help and sent the girl away, feeling herself relax somewhat when the door clicked shut behind her. Dany’s eyes flitted back to the looking glass, wishing to give herself a final once over before leaving the safety of her chamber’s four walls. Dany knew some might find it strange how little she liked to be looked upon; so many in Father’s court stumbled over themselves to proclaim her as the prettiest girl in the Six Kingdoms. Mother and Rhaegar gave similar affirmations whenever Dany professed her doubts to either of them about those flowery words. To Dany’s mind, Rhaenys was far prettier than she; her niece was four years older after all. Still, Dany always tried to remember that she was a princess of House Targaryen, just like her niece, and so it was only natural for her father’s subjects to sing such praises to her, regardless of how true they may be. 

The words of others aside, the reflection looking back at her in the mirror provoked mixed feelings, as always. So used to the lustre of her hair, pretty pink blush powdered onto her cheeks, and fine dress that brought out the violet of her irises, Dany’s selfward gaze was fleeting, stopping only to assess the growing darkness under her eyes before it reached the same endpoint as always. Not even the intricate embroidery of dragons flying upon the fabric could make Dany smile as she tugged at the single lacy sleeve of her dress, pulling the hem into her fist. Doing so stretched the material, but neither her mother nor Penny were there to chide her over it like they were prone to do. It was a bad habit - Dany knew that without the second-hand opinions everyone seemed eager to give her- but it was nonetheless a familiar comfort that did not feel egregious enough to warrant a considered effort towards changing. 

Not wishing to look upon herself any longer, Dany walked over to the door of her chamber, using her unoccupied hand to pull open the heavy oak door. Ser Barriston greeted her from his post beside the doorway, giving her a soft smile which she gladly returned.

“Good morning, Princess. I trust you slept well?” Her knight asked, walking slowly beside her to keep pace with the short strides of her legs as they set off down the corridor.

Ser Barriston was always inquiring about her welfare: if she slept enough and ate enough, was too cold or too warm. Dany supposed it was part of his duty as her Kingsguard, and though overbearing at times, the gentleness with which he spoke never failed to make her smile. 

“Well enough Ser Barriston. I did wake up earlier than I would have liked, but perhaps that was just due to excitement. It’s been so long since I last saw Rhaegar.”

The old knight hummed in understanding, nodding his head as she spoke.

“Nearly 4 moon turns now, your grace,” he affirmed. “I’m sure our prince is just as excited to see you as you are him. No doubt Princess Elia and the children will be too.”

Dany hoped that was true, and she said as much when replying to Ser Barriston. It had been quite lonely in the Red Keep during their absence, especially given that Viserys was rarely interested or pleasant enough to keep her company, and how unusually busy Mother seemed of late. Father though, keenly aware that Dany was missing her usual playmates, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to distract her, using the opportunity to put more time into their training, grinding her through long days of bending that left her exhausted and weak by the time she was given leave to climb into bed come nightfall.

Despite her mother’s words of worry when they had the opportunity to sup together, this didn’t seem too unusual to Dany. The king had simply taken a special interest in her development as a firebender after he determined that Viserys ‘lacked potential’ some years ago. At the time, Dany had felt nothing but pride at becoming Father’s new favourite. When Viserys had held that title, he enjoyed nothing more than gloating about it to her, proclaiming that, like their mother, Dany would be a firebender in name alone, while he would become second only to their father in power, surpassing even Rhaegar. Though she loved her brother, Dany was pleased to have replaced Viserys in this manner, to have proven him so undeniably wrong, even if in the years since then his childish cruelty had given way to a more tolerable temperament of apathetic disregard.

Now though, knowing the pressure accompanied by the king’s attention, pride was a distant feeling. Most days it felt as though Dany never had the chance to feel anything - at least until the relief her bed provided at day’s end. Today would thankfully prove a welcome reprieve from all this, starting with breakfast in her mother’s chambers. It had been a few days now since Dany had last seen her mother outside of family meals in the evening. Those were always formal affairs at which Father demanded proper decorum, regardless of the company or lack thereof. So, when afforded the opportunity in the privacy of their own rooms, Dany always relished the freedom to sink into her mother’s warm embrace. 

It was with this intent that Dany arrived at the queen’s chambers, nodding silently to Ser Oswell as he bowed to her in greeting. Her mother’s sworn shield kept his eyes to the ground as he knocked twice on the door, opening it just a crack so that his words would be heard by the room’s sole occupant.

“Your Grace, the Princess Daenerys is here for you.” 

“Do let her in, Ser Oswell,” the queen’s voice was quick to follow, humour evident in her tone at having to grant her daughter permission to enter.

“Good morning, Mother,” Dany said politely as the door closed behind her, doubt once more creeping into her thoughts. 

Recently, on those nights where Dany crawled into bed sore all over and truly missing her mother’s tender affection, Dany wondered why it now felt so hard to come by. As she lay awake, Dany would imagine grievances she’d committed and slights she’d made against the queen, all in a vain attempt to understand why her mother seemed to be avoiding her so. It never used to be like this. Only a few moons ago, around the time before Rhaegar and his family left, in fact, Mother had spent most of her time with Dany. She would come to wake her in the morning, eat with her at the luncheon, and put her to bed at night, singing soft lullabies and kissing her on the brow as sleep came peacefully. Now, she had handmaids to wake her, ate her midday meal alone with Ser Barriston, and helped herself into bed each night, the memory of her mother’s voice a poor substitute for the real thing.

So, when the queen rushed forward to embrace her, knees falling to plush Myrish carpet before tucking Dany into her neck to murmur soft words of love and affection in the girl’s ear, Dany felt her heart swell and her fears begin to fade.

“You aren’t mad at me?” Dany asked against the high collar of her mother’s dress, voice barely above a whisper.

The queen let out a strangled breath into Dany’s hair, as if pained by the query. 

“No my sweet girl, never. Never. You’ve done nothing to make me mad.”

Though reluctant to lessen their embrace, Dany leant back, eyes wide to gaze upon her mother’s face, looking for the truth of those words in her expression, desperate for it to be so. She saw that the queen looked on the verge of tears and knew then that her mother had not been lying. Dany felt her own eyes begin to water, though if from relief at her mother’s answer, or shared sadness at the look on her face, she couldn’t be sure. The princess could only tuck herself back into her mother’s neck, willing herself not to cry. 

Father would not be pleased if she let her tears fall.

 _A Targaryen does not weep_ , after all.

Dany could have stayed as she was then forever, but after some time - how long, she was unsure - her mother pulled away, running her hands up and down Dany’s arms as she smiled softly, eyes shining all the while.

“You look so lovely this morning, my sweet, did you pick out this dress yourself?” She asked, hands reaching up to cup Dany’s face, thumbs stroking tenderly upon the porcelain skin of her cheeks.

Dany nodded, not wishing to mention Penny’s help lest it make her mother feel as though she had been replaced. Nobody in the whole of Westeros could do that, Dany was sure.

“That’s good dear,” Mother said, hands returning to the sleeved arm of Dany’s dress. “These Dragons are very pretty,” she continued lightly, fingers tracing along the embroidery, 

“Mother,” Dany whined, forgetting any prior nerves and drawing out the word with a disbelieving roll of her eyes. “Dragons aren’t pretty, they’re fierce and powerful.”

The queen only grinned in obvious amusement, vexing Dany greatly, before she reached out to smooth her daughter’s now furrowed brow with the pads of her thumbs.

“Don’t you think something can be both?” She asked, more serious now. “You’re very pretty, my love, and when you fight you’re fierce and powerful too - just like a dragon.”

Dany could only look to the ground in response, tugging the sleeve of her dress once more into a clenched fist.

“No I’m not,” Dany murmured. “Father always says I’ve got much work to do before I can truly call myself a dragon like him.” She didn’t want to mention the events of the night prior. Mother worried about her so much that Dany was fearful she would one day put a stop to her lessons with Father. As tiring as they were, Daenerys knew that learning firebending was something she must do. It was her duty to House Targaryen, and to her king.

Her mother smiled, a sad smile, Dany thought. “Your father is very proud of you, Daenerys. I know he doesn’t like to say as much, but I’ll let you in on a little secret,” the queen leant in then, whispering into the shell of Dany’s ear, “near every night he tells me how, of all in our family, you will be the fiercest dragon of them all.”

This time, when Dany leant back to look upon her mother’s face, the truth of her words was less apparent than it had been before. Somehow, even in spite of the king’s words to her last night, Dany found she wasn’t surprised by this, shaking her head slightly and looking once more to the floor in disbelief. Dany’s gaze only rose through her lashes when a soft hand ecased her own, gently coaxing fingers and lace from their fisted form. She closed her eyes when her mother leant in, pressing a kiss to her brow that lingered until a small smile replaced the frown previously upon her lips.

“It may have taken your father more than five years to realise, but I knew before you were even born that you were special, little one,” her mother began once her gaze had captured Dany’s own. There was a certain surety to her voice now, one wholly distinct to how she had spoken prior. This had Dany’s attention immediately, even if she had heard the story of her birth countless times.

“It was a blessing, discovering I was with child; realising I had you growing inside me. I was nearing my fortieth nameday by then, and, if you didn’t know dear, it’s a rare thing for a woman to get with child at such an age. I felt so lucky. A final chance, I thought. A blessing from the Gods.

Mother’s smile was bittersweet, voice wistful as she spoke, gaze drifting far off from Dany’s for a few moments as if apparitions of her memory, both painful and pleasant, had appeared in the distance.

“I packed for Dragonstone, to stay with Rhaegar, once the maesters told me the news,” she started again, standing as she spoke and leading Dany by the hand to a plush lounge chair, sitting down herself before guiding Dany to sit across her lap, arms wrapping around her. “King’s Landing is too stressful a place for a woman in my condition, I thought, and Dragonstone always proved much the opposite. Still, leaving came with its price. For the seven moons I was gone, Viserys remained here in the Red Keep.”

Dany had not heard details from this time before. In fact, any story of her birth she’d heard previously always began with the storm. She had never even stopped to question why her mother had been on Dragonstone in the first place.

“Why couldn’t he go with you?” Dany asked softly, loath to interrupt the story, but unable to stay her tongue.

“Your father insisted he stay. Said he needed time alone to teach Viserys how to be a man. He was only a boy, had just reached his eighth year like you have now, and I wanted to take him with me. I wanted so desperately for him to come with me, and I tried to argue with your father, but as always once Aerys had made up his mind, no amount of pleading could sway him from it.”

Dany had never heard her mother call Father by name so callously, nor heard her sound so angry. It was a quiet sort of anger. The kind of fury that was kept suppressed, simmering just under the surface and only seething out in a boiling heat when one’s mind was moving too quickly to keep it contained. Dany couldn’t tell if she ought to be frightened or awed by the power radiating off her mother in that moment. It was so similar to the kind she felt when Father had fought at the full extent of his strength.

Bile threatened to rise in her throat at the memory.

A hand reached up then, cupping Dany’s face, thumb rubbing at an ear as if to soothe after what it had just heard. “So I left. Stayed on Dragonstone, doted on sweet little Rhaenys and met baby Aegon for the first time,” Mother began once more. “It was peaceful, comfortable. A good place to remain distracted from the worries that came with pregnancy.”

She stopped then, sighing deeply, head tilting down beside Dany’s. Her eyes squeezed shut. Another deep breath later, and with that same sureness in her eyes as when she began, her mother asked something Dany had truthfully been long curious to the answer. 

“Have you ever wondered why Viserys is eight years your senior? And Rhaegar fifteen years older still?”

“Yes,” Dany answered simply, “most siblings are much closer in age than we are.”

For the most part Dany wasn’t concerned by how much older her brothers were. She had never lacked in company because of it; Rhaenys and Aegon always being sufficed in that regard, treating her more like a sister than an aunt. Still, it was a point of interest for Dany, and she was intrigued as to why her mother was bringing it up now.

“You’re right, most are,” her mother said, voice tinged with sorrow. “In the years after Rhaegar was born, your father and I tried many times for more children, and… and though you don’t have any other siblings besides Viserys, I - I grew with child eight times before his birth.” 

This confused Dany on two fronts, and she struggled to find the words that would aid in remedying this confusion. In the first instance, she didn’t quite understand how one ‘tried’ for a child, yet alone what determined success or failure. More worrying though was the eight babes missing from her family - babes who would by now be men and women grown, or near enough.

“What - what happened to them?” Dany asked finally, tentatively, heart sinking at the realisation that no answer to such a question could be pleasant.

The queen hugged Dany close, taking deep, shuddering breaths into her hair. “There was Shaena and Eleana, beautiful little girls just like you, born without so much as a cry, never taking first breath.”

Dany felt her chest ache painfully at the thought of such a thing, unable and unwilling to imagine a lifeless babe lying unmoving in Mother’s arms. She knew now why Mother was holding her so tight, and Dany was glad for it, reaching up with her own arms to wrap them around her mother’s neck, holding herself closer still.

“Daeron, Jaehaerys and a baby Aegon of my own were my little princes.” Dany could feel Mother’s smile on her cheek, fleeting though it was. “Oh, they were such sweet little things, and even though my time with each was short, I knew they would have grown so beautifully.” 

“They died?” Dany exclaimed in horrible realisation, voice a whimper.

“Yes my love, they died. All of them before their first year.”

“But why?” Was all Dany could ask. She didn’t understand. It made no sense for babes so young to die without reason or intent.

It took a moment for her mother to respond, seemingly content to sit and hold Dany close, fingers rubbing gently along her back.

“They were born small and sick, all three of them,” she began, voice hollow. “The maesters tried all they could… tried to keep them healthy for as long as possible but… it wasn’t to be, I suppose. No amount of gold or crying or begging could conjure up the miracle needed to save them. Nothing could be done.”

Dany couldn’t decide which was worse: birthing a babe, breathless from the first, or having them die so young, after you had loved and cherished them with all your heart. She quickly realised trying to choose between such options was a foolish endeavour. Some choices were simply impossible to make, and her mother, her sweet, loving mother, deserved neither fate despite having been cursed to suffer both.

As they sat there in contemplative silence, finding momentary solace in the comfort of each other’s presence, she realised that three of her should-be-siblings had not yet been mentioned. Dany did not think she could bear to hear more, but her mother had started this story for a purpose - of that she was certain - and, apart from wishing to know what that reason was, Dany had no interest in making her mother retell and relive such tragedy on a future occasion.

“What about the others?” Dany began, not moving from her position as she spoke. “You said I had eight other siblings, but that’s only five.”

Dany flinched at the clumsy choice of words as soon as they left her lips. _Only._ It seemed so discordant a concept when applied to the loss of one’s children, regardless of the number in question. Still, her mother either didn’t notice or was unfazed by the indelicate blunder, only humming softly to indicate she’d heard.

“Yes sweetling, you’re right. I was with child three times more, but they were born far too soon; too soon to even tell if they were a boy or girl and small enough to fit in the palm of a hand...or so I was told anyway. I never held or saw them myself. I couldn’t bear it, though sometimes now I wish I had.”

“I’m sorry,” Dany sobbed, tears finally spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks. Father’s words rang clearly in her head for the second time that morning.

_A Targaryen does not weep._

Dany pulled back from her mother’s neck, rubbing quickly at her eyes in an attempt to hide the tears, not wishing them to stain evidence of her weakness into the high collar of the queen’s gown.

“Sshhh it’s okay my sweet,” the queen comforted, gentle hands encasing Dany’s own, lowering them from her eyes to her lap. “It’s okay to be sad, and there’s no shame in letting tears fall when you are. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

The queen’s own eyes were dry, and Dany couldn’t help but think that perhaps they had simply run out of tears to shed. She wondered how many times her mother had wept. No matter the number, it would be more than was deserved.

Dany kept her gaze downcast, sniffling as her mother dabbed away tears with a handkerchief before holding it up to Dany’s nose for her to blow into. In other circumstances Dany might have protested such treatment, but right now she felt more like a little girl than a Princess of House Targaryen.

“I know it’s sad, sweetling, and I did not want to upset you, but it’s because of them that I know you’re special,” Mother began again. “Viserys was a miracle already - your father was so pleased to have another son - but after his birth we stopped trying for more. The maesters said it was too great a risk to my health.”

“But then how did I get in your belly if you stopped trying?” Dany asked suddenly, brows furrowed, a hand pressing thoughtfully to her mother’s stomach as if to find the answer there.

The queen winced. It was only the slightest twitch of an eye, the subtle pursing of lips, but still, Dany saw.

“It was… not planned, my love, but I was so happy when I found out. So so so so so so happy.” The queen punctuated every ‘so’ with a kiss to Dany’s face such that the girl was left giggling, prior queries forgotten. “Those months on Dragonstone were important too, perhaps. It is where the Targaryen magic is strongest; where our connection to the fire is at its greatest. Still, the night of the storm was when my premonitions of your singularity were proved true.”

Dany listened with rapt attention. She knew of the great storm that had ravaged her ancestral home throughout the night of her birth. _Daenerys Stormborn_ , they called her. Dany loved the name. It made her feel strong, and came with the boon of Viserys’ envy.

“What do you know of Valyrian thought on lightning?” She asked then, surprising Dany, who took a moment to collect her thoughts on the matter, trying to recall anything Rhaegar may have taught her from one of the old tomes he was always reading.

It came to her then, the excitement of knowing the answer distracting from any initial confusion at the question. “They believed that lightning was fire in its purest form.”

The queen smiled proudly, nodding in affirmation at Dany’s response. “Yes my love, they thought that lightning, not the sun, as most do now, was fire in its purest form, for it burns hotter than any flame, even in a sunless sky, and has the power to set forests under rain ablaze.”

As much as that made sense, Dany was unsure how the ancient Valyrian firebenders had come to this conclusion. They were said to have been wise beyond current comprehension, but still, such beliefs seemed so contrary to what she herself had felt in the presence of both sun and storm. Where the former’s rays beat down in a charging heat, fuelling Dany’s fire to greater heights, the latter only served to dampen her flames as fat raindrops thundered down and black clouds sent summer days into darkness.

“It was the lightning that told me, it spoke to me as it could only to a Targaryen,” her mother went on, voice oddly lucid given the strangeness of her words, “for every time it’s jagged light illuminated the birthing chambers, I saw them - saw flashes of what could have been had my sweet babies lived to become the princes and princesses they ought to have been.”

Dany’s eyes were wide, heart pounding in her chest and hand once more clenched tight around the hem of her sleeve as she took in her mother’s words. Her own dreams were always more vivid on nights such as the one of her birth, where wind rattled at windows as lightning threw ephemeral shadows across the room. Still, nothing so meaningful as what her mother was describing had ever come to Dany.

“What did they say?” Dany asked tentatively, understanding now that whatever it was would somehow have something to do with her.

“It was little Jae who spoke to me.” Mother began, eyes distant as they had been earlier, cast over Dany’s shoulder as if seeing her lost children once more. “He said that you would be born with the fire of them all within you, blessed to carry their strength as your own.”

Her mother’s gaze returned to Dany’s own then, a mixture of shining pride and profound loss colouring its purple hue.

“But what...what does that mean?” Dany asked, her mind racing.

“It means, my sweet, that you are a true dragon, the truest of us all, and that should you choose to take that path you would be among the greatest of any Targaryen, past or present.”

Dany looked down, unsure what to make of her mother’s words. Such talk of destiny and greatness was so far from the concerns she felt within herself. But her mother was ardent, and in the face of her certainty Dany couldn’t help but begin to accept the words she spoke, even if a part of her remained unconvinced.

“I knew that from the moment I first felt you inside me, Danaerys. Rhaegar and Elia didn’t believe me, I could tell, but when they saw the beautiful marks upon your arm, when they felt that storm around them as they looked upon you for the first time, I knew they understood, even if only a little.”

Dany looked then to her sleeved arm, still struggling within herself to believe the queen’s words. _Beautiful._ Not even a mother could truthfully use such a word to describe the fine, pale pink lines that blossomed from shoulder to wrist upon the porcelain skin of her arm, so like an artist’s impression of branches on a pine. It was as if she had been struck by that same lightning which so captured her mother’s attention, as if it had left the image of it’s likeness upon her skin for all to see. _Stormborn_ , in more ways than one. The marking was ugly. Of that, Dany was certain.

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?” Dany asked, looking up at her mother through dark lashes.

The woman looked mildly stricken at that. “Make you feel better? No, little one, nothing so simple as that. I tell you this not as a falsehood designed to warm your heart, but because it is the truth, and because you are old enough now to know it, to know that you can do anything, that you should feel assured in not just your ability as a firebender, but in yourself, in who you are inside.”

“Who am I inside?” Dany asked softly, leaning down to tuck herself back into her mother’s neck, hands in her lap. 

She could feel the queens smile as she pressed her cheek into Dany’s hair. “You’ve a tender heart, sweetling, you must never forget that,” was all she said.

Dany once more looked down at her sleeved arm, resting between her and Mother. She didn’t know what good a tender heart was to someone cursed like her, regardless of what her mother said.

“You know, you don’t have to hide it behind a sleeve, my love,” Mother said gently, gaze directed the same way as Dany’s. 

“I’m not hiding… I just...I don’t like it when they stare,” Dany replied.

“That’s okay darling, I understand. I just hope that one day you’ll see that if you accept it as part of yourself, a beautiful part like all the rest, then nothing they say or do can hurt you, because their opinions will mean nothing to you.”

Dany nodded despite doubting she’d ever do that. “I like wearing my sleeve though,” she half-lied. “No one else wore their dresses like that before, and now I even see some ladies in the court doing the same, it’s like… it’s like how you always wear high collars, Mother,” Dany explained, feeling the need to justify her choice more and growing a little excited at the seemingly perfect comparison, only to have that tempered by her mother’s momentary frown. “It’s my own personal style,” she finished, absentmindedly reaching up to run her fingers across the opaque fabric covering the queen’s neck.

The queen was silent for a moment, lips pursed. “Many ladies wear their collars this way, my dear, I’m not the only one.”

“Maybe I’ll wear my dresses like this someday too then.” Dany smiled a little, fingers playing with the collars edge, almost pulling it back from the skin, only to be stopped by her mother reaching up to grab the wandering hands, kissing them each on the palm.

“I hope not, my sweet, I hope not,” she all but whispered, hugging Dany close once more. “Why don’t you come up to the table and eat with me, you must be hungry,” the queen said into Dany’s ear, tickling at her sides as she did.

Dany squealed in laughter, squirming out of her mother’s gasp, stomach rumbling at the mention of food. She was hungry, yes, but Dany knew a big feast would be prepared for midday, after the arrival of the missing members of their family. 

_Some of the missing members, at least..._

“Is there peaches? And yogurt too?” Dany asked, shaking off such thoughts and wishing to treat herself with a sweet, but light, breakfast so as not to spoil her stomach before the luncheon.

“Yes love, of course, anything you want,” the queen answered as she stood up, lifting Dany from her lap as she did. 

Feet firmly on the floor, Dany took her mother’s hand, lacing their fingers together even if it was only a dozen or so steps to the dining table on the other side of the room. Sitting down under the window, Dany gently pulled her mother into the chair beside her, not wishing to have the table between them.

Once they were seated comfortably, Dany reached eagerly for the plate of sliced peaches and bowl of yogurt, serving some of each into her own dish before returning them to the centre spread. Collecting a spoonful that was perhaps a bit bigger than necessary, Dany opened her mouth wide to accommodate, humming loudly in appreciation at the flavour bursting upon her tongue. The muffled sound of her mother’s laughter had an abashed smile growing on Dany’s lips, and she looked up to see the queen covering a toothy grin with one hand while the other reached down thumb first to wipe at some wayward yogurt on Dany’s chin. 

A smudge of white was all Dany saw before her mother was licking the thumb between parted lips, humming to herself just as Dany had done, while a playful smile dimpled her cheeks. Dany failed to suppress a giggle of her own at this, and she found the glint of humour now present in her mother’s eyes immeasurably better than the melancholy that had dimmed them before.

The remainder of breakfast went by in relative silence as Dany ate hungrily and the queen picked leisurely at some fruit and cheese. It wasn’t until the muffled sound of voices could be heard beyond the door that this peace was disturbed. The chamber door crashed open suddenly, the king striding in as he slammed it behind him. A frown marred his features, his anger apparent to any who knew his moods. Dany had stirred such anger before, on many occasions, in fact. In the early days of her current training routine, when she was unused to the intensity, she had often asked, pleaded even, for breaks, for a chance to catch her breath. She quickly learned that this only made things worse, as Father would push her harder in response, shouting at her all the while. “Do you think our enemies will give you breaks?” He would ask. Dany wasn’t sure what enemies she had, but never thought it wise to say as much.

Still, when the day was done, provided Father was pleased with her progress, he would always nod, patting her on the head while the faintest of smiles ticked up at the corner of his lips. The gesture always made her hard work feel worthwhile. She rarely ever saw her father more pleased than he was in those moments.

“Aerys,” Mother stood up from her seat to Dany’s right, a hand reaching down to hold Dany’s shoulder, keeping her seated. “What’s the meaning of this interruption, is something the matter?”

The king only sneered, running a hand over his greying hair. “Is something is the matter” he repeated, chuckling darkly. “Our son and his Dornish sl - ,” the king glanced then at Dany, “Our son won’t be arriving today, it seems. A group of Essosi pirates dared to attack their ship.”

Dany felt the queen’s hand squeeze momentarily around her shoulder, and could not help a gasp of her own at the news. “Was anyone hurt? The children - “

Mother’s concerned words were cut short by a dismissive wave of the king’s hand, and a growl of anger from his throat. “Only a few of the sailors and guardsmen. The attackers were either mad or desperate, attacking a Targaryen firebender so brazenly.”

Dany would have imagined Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn to have made the biggest impact in a fight on the open ocean, given their skill as a waterbenders. The use of firebending seemed risky in such a scenario, even for someone as gifted at it as Rhaeger was. One’s own ship could catch flame so easily.

A dark scowl remained on the king’s face, as if he had somehow heard Dany’s dissenting thoughts. “Either way, we’ll find out. The missive said some had been captured, to be brought back to the capital for questioning.” A brief grin ghosted across Father’s face, though it did nothing to lighten his expression. “I’ll make sure they talk myself.” 

He walked over to her then, stopping to stand beside the end of the table where Daenerys sat. The king’s hand mirrored her mother’s, gripping her previously bare shoulder tightly.

“You’ve done quite well in your training recently, my little dragon,” he said softly. “I think it’s time we take the next step, don’t you agree?”

“Yes Father,” Dany nodded, despite not knowing what the next step entailed. Her eyes were wide as they flitted between her mother and father, hoping to discern the source of the palpable tension around her. Mother seemed as if she wanted to speak, biting her lip as if to stay her tongue, while Father seemed more than willing to simply ignore her presence, eyes focussed solely on Daenerys.

“Good girl. Come now, we will begin at once.” 

The king’s back was already facing her as the last of his words reached her ears. Daenerys slipped down from her chair immediately, walking quickly to follow him towards the door. 

“Aerys, please.”

Her mother’s voice was strained as it cut through the silence of the room. She was unsure of the cause for such a plea, of what her mother was asking, but could nonetheless hear the desperation in her tone. It saddened Dany as much as anything else she’d heard that morning.

A cold, silencing glare from over the shoulder of the king preceded Dany’s own glance back towards her mother, just before the chamber door slammed shut behind her. Somehow, after all she had just relived, it was only then that Dany saw a lone tear streaking down Queen Rhaella’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it was, Dany's first chapter. Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and don't forget to leave a bookmark if you'd like to keep updated!
> 
> P.S. I promise I won't make a habit of ending every chapter with tears slipping down cheeks...


	3. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns more of his mother, and of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the long wait, I'll do my best to avoid them in the future.

# Jon II

**Winterfell 293**

Jon stewed in silence for a week.

He managed small smiles for Bran and Arya whenever they ran up to him asking to play, their own toothy grins contagious. Such happiness was fleeting, though. The Queen would quickly come find the pair, ignoring Arya’s protests that they hadn’t finished playing yet as she dragged them away, not even sparing a glance to acknowledge Jon’s presence. He preferred it that way, he found. The Queen ignoring him was far less of a concern than any of the attention she might otherwise decide to give him.

Still, Jon wished it wouldn’t affect the time he could spend with his brother and sister. They seemed to be the only people who willingly spent time in his company anymore. Unlike her younger siblings, Sansa, as usual, followed her mother’s lead, shying away from him when they were near. Jon knew it wasn’t her fault, she was young still, but the rejection stung all the same. Robb too had been distant, though this was of his own accord. Jon was secretly glad for the separation, for he didn’t think he could yet be in the older boy’s presence without a foul mood descending upon him. 

These things considered, it was quite a surprise to Jon when his father came to seek him out personally in that first week after the incident. The King was a rare sight in his bastard’s chambers, and Jon felt a strange mix of fear and delight upon opening the door to his presence. Looking upon his father’s small smile and sad eyes, Jon was unsure if the man was here to comfort him or offer more of the same reprimands Queen Catelyn had given already.

“Hello Jon, may I please come in?” The king asked.

“Yes Father, of course.” Jon stepped aside, pulling the door fully open as he did. 

His father strode inside, glancing around the small, bare room with a slight frown, before sitting down on the bed. Jon closed the door quickly, wishing he’d had the foresight to clean his chambers.

“Come sit down, Jon, let’s talk,” Father said softly.

His tone of voice gave little of his intentions away, though Jon had never truly seen his father angry before. Perhaps this would be the first instance of such an outburst. Perhaps the queen would have her deepest wish fulfilled, and Jon would be cast out of Winterfell. Swallowing nervously he sat down beside his father, head tilted down to face the fidgeting hands in his lap.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Jon looked up to his father then, surprised at the question. “Haven’t Robb and the queen already told you?” Jon asked.

The king nodded slowly. “Aye, Catelyn said her piece, and I asked Robb just the same as I am asking you now. Still, I want to hear your version of events, son.”

_ Son. _ The word always made Jon feel warm inside. Like sinking into a hot bath after a hard day's work, the warmth eased the tension that had gripped Jon’s frame in the moments prior. So long as his father thought of him as such, no one else’s opinion truly mattered. With this newfound sense of comfort at the situation, Jon described what, in his mind, had happened on the afternoon in question. He started by explaining how he had told Robb of a mistake he was making while practicing, how they had then thrown barbed words back and forth, and how he eventually demonstrated the technique himself, making sure to say that he hadn’t had the slightest intention to actually waterbend or break any tradition, merely to help his brother. Jon even admitted his fault in rising to meet Robb’s frustration with his own, and apologised for not having remained calmer. He did not, however, apologise for anything he had said to the queen. In their exchange that afternoon he had done nothing to justify the grievances she had surely taken to her husband. Jon would not apologise to her. Of that, he was adamant. Even bastards had pride.

The king listened intently to the story, nodding along whenever Jon would pause in concern, wondering if his father would want to say something. Finally, when Jon’s voice tapered off, the older man sighed deeply before speaking once more.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Jon. I know you had no malintent,” he began, voice soft, “Still, it is never wise to play so recklessly with traditions such as bending. Northerners are stubborn folk, and many don’t take kindly to those who skirt so close to the disrespect of customs such as the age of bending.”

Jon nodded glumly. “Okay Father, I won’t do it again.”

A heavy hand was placed on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “That’s a good lad.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Jon said suddenly, unable to prevent the words slipping out, “I won’t be allowed to train in bending so I’ll probably just forget about trying to learn from Robb’s lessons as I was before.”

The king’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘won’t be allowed’, what gave you that idea?”

Jon’s felt his own forehead crease in confusion. “Well, Robb told me that his mother said I wouldn’t even be able to bend so…” His voice trailed off. 

It was bad enough talking of such potentialities with Robb. With his father, the embarrassment was double, for he imagined the older man’s own shame about his inadequacies and added it to his own. Such embarrassment was short-lived as, for what felt like the first time, Jon Snow made King Eddard Stark laugh. It started as nothing more than a quick exhaling of air from his nose, a snicker, really. But that was followed by another such half-laugh, and one more after that until the king was chuckling to himself such that Jon, despite everything he knew of the man, was almost convinced his father was laughing at him.

“Jon, my wife is an intelligent woman. She manages this castle well, but she is not of the north, and… I know that when it comes to you she is not the most… neutral, in her assessments.”

Jon listened with a strange fascination. He had never heard the king talk so candidly about his wife before. Perhaps all that laughter had loosened something in his head.

“So,” the king went on, “when it comes to your future as a waterbender, it is not her decision to make. It is mine, and no child of mine will be denied the opportunity to bend.”

Jon felt his breath stutter in relief. It was as if the shackles of his name had been loosened just a little. He looked up to his father beside him, almost disbelieving that this was real. He saw sadness then, and guilt, in the king’s eyes. 

“Your mother she…” the king sighed, hands wringing in his lap as if nervous. “She wanted so much for you, Jon. She never would have forgiven me if you were not allowed to bend.”

Jon’s heart could have stopped. Those few words were more than he’d heard of his mother in so long. He replayed them in his head, once, twice, making sure to memorize each syllable for later inspection, but before he could think too much more on them, or ask more about her, his father pressed on.

“So, just like Robb, you will be given the chance to prove yourself on your tenth nameday. Does that sound fair?”

The question didn’t really require an answer. Fair was all Jon wanted, really.

“Yes father,” he intoned anyway, a smile breaking out on his face at the realisation he would be a bender.

“Good lad, and you will continue to watch Robb’s lessons in the meantime. When you begin your own I’d like for you to catch up quickly so that you’re able to train together. You’ll both get stronger that way.”

Jon could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But the queen… she won’t -”

“Hush now, what did I say before? I’ll deal with the queen. You just keep out of her way as much as you can, alright?

Jon nodded, doubtful things would be so easy. 

~~~

In the days and weeks that followed, Jon meditated on the king’s words near constantly, reciting them to himself as if they were a prayer or incantation with the power to summon his mother from the dead. So little said so much.  _ She wanted him _ . He wasn’t a mistake. He wasn’t merely the regretted byproduct of an otherwise meaningless affair.  _ She wanted him to be a waterbender.  _ More than that even; Father’s words made it seem as if she  _ expected _ him to be a bender. This warmed Jon almost as much as the newfound knowledge that she had cared for him, and had dreamt of his future being bright. Perhaps she herself had been a bender? Jon had never even stopped to consider such a thing before. Most benders were of course members of a noble house, and the notion that King Eddard would beget a bastard upon such a lady seemed outlandish; surely his mother’s house would not have stood for such dishonour. Still, the phrasing of his father’s words did seem to suggest that Jon’s mother may have been a bender, and that was something which saddened him as much as it did delight.

Jon was retreading these familiar paths of thought as he walked slowly through the castle grounds. He and Robb had a lesson with Maester Luwin, who had always been one of Jon’s favourite people in the castle for how little he seemed to care for Jon’s baseborn status. The same could not be said for other residents, as ever since his public spat with the Queen, many of the servants and tradesmen in the castle had begun to ignore him where they had once greeted him freely. As always it had hurt at first, but Jon was familiar with such hurt, and each time it was inflicted the suffering was lessened both in duration and intensity. Jon was simply growing numb to isolation and loneliness, for they were his constant companions, more reliable even than Robb.

Jon groaned as he reached the stairs to Maester Luwin's study. They were always arduous to climb, and as his right thigh ached with each upward step, Jon regretted allowing Robb to get in a hit there during yesterday’s spars. It was becoming more difficult to hold back, Jon found. Robb’s confidence was growing, and with that came the often grating, even if well-meaning, remarks from the older boy. The last thing Jon wanted was to do something reckless, like humiliating Robb during a spar, and disrupt the tentative peace that had established between them. Of course part of Jon screamed out to do just that. Not for the sake of humiliation, but to truly express his hard work in a tangible form. Mastering moves in isolation was one thing, stringing them together to defeat an opponent was another, and Jon was finding it increasingly difficult to keep in check the thrum of power which he so often felt stirring under his skin whilst sparring.

The top of the stairs was a welcome reprieve, and Jon let himself into the study, finding that both Robb and the maester were already present.

“Ah, Jon, just in time.” Maester Luwin said as Jon took his seat beside Robb.

“Today we’ll be going over Dorne, it’s history and its relationship with the North.”

Jon perked up at this. Ever since he had heard the story of his Aunt Lyanna and her residence in Dorne, he had been fascinated with the place, often dreaming about running away from his life in the North just as it was rumoured she had. Father never liked to speak on the matter, but others around the castle sometimes did, and Jon had pieced bits of information together on the events of that time. So as Maester Luwin went on, Jon paid careful attention, and did his best to take notes on the maester’s tales of the Rhoynar migration to Dorne after their loss in the Rhoynish Wars with Valyria, of the subsequent introduction of a second waterbending people to Westeros, distinct from the First Men of the north, of Queen Nymeria’s defeat of the six self-styled Dornish Kings, and of the resulting ascent of House Nymeros Martell.

Robb, on the other hand, was less enthused.

“Why do we have to learn about Dorne, maester? It’s all the way on the other end of Westeros.” He groaned, dropping his head to the edge of his desk.

Jon couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Robb was usually a good student, but when bored often demonstrated a flair for the dramatic that was sometimes truly quite excessive. Still, Maester Luwin only hummed good-naturedly before answering the query as if it were a genuine curiosity and not merely an expression of abject apathy. 

“Well, thanks to the work of your Father Dorne is now an important trading partner within the Six Kingdoms, and a great ally to the North, second only to your Mother’s home, the Riverlands.”

At this Robb perked up, and even Jon found himself leaning into the maester’s words.

“Thanks to Father? What did he do?” Robb asked quickly. Jon knew his brother was always as eager as he was to learn about their father’s deeds and accomplishments.

Maester Luwin smiled fondly, as if he knew that mention of the king would spark interest in his student.

“Well, he went to Dorne - ” The maester began.

“He did?!” The two boys exclaimed simultaneously, much to the maester’s obvious amusement.

“Hush now, let me explain. He went to Dorne at the behest of his father to…” the maester seemed to struggle here, as if he was unsure on what to say, “he went to Dorne to attend to some familial matters, and, acting on the King’s behalf, ended up negotiating trade alliances between the two kingdoms while he was there.”

Jon sat in silence as he absorbed what the Maester had said, while Robb continued to question him on the finer points of the North’s trading relationship with Dorne. Such information was more useful to Robb anyway, Jon thought, seeing as it was he who would have to maintain that relationship in his own reign as king. To Jon though, nothing felt more important at that moment than piecing together this new information with what he already knew about his mother, which may finally give him some answers to who she was, and, in turn, who he was. He knew that his grandfather had died not long after Robb’s birth, which meant that Father had been in Dorne sometime just before that.  _ Around the time that he himself had been born… _

The realisation hit Jon like a truck.  _ Had his mother been Dornish?  _ It would make sense. There were obviously many waterbenders there, and Jon had already come to the conclusion that his mother had likely been a bender. Even more convincing was that his father would have been away from his new wife for some time while traveling all the way to Dorne, even with the added speed waterbending could give to travel by sea. It might also even explain the purple of his eyes, a trait which he knew was entirely atypical of any Northern family.

Jon looked up to the maester, a barrage of questions regarding what else the man knew about the king’s time in Dorne on the tip of his tongue. As if expecting such a line of questions though, Maester Luwin quickly spoke up, cutting off any of Jon’s queries.

“I think that’s enough for today though, boys. If you’d like to know more I suggest you ask your father.”

Jon’s heart sank a little at that, for he had always been too nervous to ask his father such questions, too afraid that bringing up the wrong thing might stir anger or sadness in the usually stoic King, and inspire him to throw Jon from the castle. When Jon was thinking clearly he knew such thoughts were foolish. Even if he managed to provoke his father’s anger, the man had never threatened, or even indicated a desire to kick Jon from Winterfell. It was with this reassurance running through his head that Jon resolved to ask his father once more about his mother. He would ask if she was from Dorne. If she was noble or common. 

If he had loved her.

He would ask.

One day, anyway.

~~~

The months leading up to Jon’s nameday were the slowest in his nine years. Each day he would watch Robb bend, just as father had instructed, leaving him almost vibrating with the need to do the same. Most nights, before sleep took its hold, Jon would imagine giving in to such temptation, picture himself jumping down from his usual spot on the training yard fence to join his brother before displaying skill realistically beyond the capabilities of any boy his age. He never did anything of the sort, of course. Jon was incredibly grateful that Father had denied the wishes of his wife so that his baseborn son would have the same opportunity as his trueborn one. Regardless of how difficult it was to wait for year’s end, Jon did not wish to do anything which might jeopardise the gift he had been given.

For the most part, he used his training at the sword as an outlet for this restlessness. Master Rodrik always said that much of the footwork and movement of swordplay was transferable to bending. The reverse seemed to be true also, for even with only observation of the latter to go by, Jon had an intuitive feel for the relationship between the two, and found it quite surprising when his teacher explained that many benders forwent practising with weaponry entirely upon gaining sufficient ability at waterbending. Jon thought this was silly. Bending was indeed powerful, more so than any traditional weapon for certain, but one might not always have water or snow nearby with which to bend, and limiting oneself to reliance on that which was itself unreliable hardly seemed wise.

Still, as with each lesson of Robb’s that Jon watched, he stowed the information away for later use. He would need all the help he could get if he was to catch up to Robb as Father had said he should, for by the time Jon’s nameday was only two moons away, Robb had progressed greatly in his ability as a bender. Watching him now, Jon saw that much of the initial stiffness that had plagued his movement previously was no longer present. Internally, Jon mused that this was doubly good, for it was that same stiffness which had been the cause of their row all those months ago. As with all previous fights between the two, Jon and Robb had made up in the weeks following, though it took some time after that for the topic of bending to lose some of its taboo. For a while, Jon was saddened to think that the previous fight had scarred their relationship in a way none before it had done. Now though, as Jon cheered for Robb having successfully performed a new technique, such concerns had faded.

After being dismissed by Master Rodrik, Robb ran over to jon with a wide grin on his face, auburn hair falling into his eyes.

“Jon, Jon did you see? That was awesome! Shooting ice-disks is so fun!”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh a little at his brother's excitement, and honestly couldn’t blame him for it. The ice-disk technique - an unfortunately boring name, Jon and Robb had already agreed - was a potentially deadly ranged attack used by waterbenders. By creating a column of ice in front of them, a waterbender could slice off thin, sharp disks to quickly shoot off as projectiles at incoming enemies.

“I’m sure it would have been more fun if you actually hit the dummy more than twice.” Jon japed.

“Shut it.” Robb said in response, shoving Jon a little in the shoulder as they walked towards the great hall for lunch.

Jon smiled a little. Such a joke would have been risky only a few moons ago, but as Robb’s confidence in his bending seemed to grow, so too did his ability to take such jabs as lightly as they were intended. A moment more of silence passed between them before Robb turned to Jon with a grin on his face. It was a look Jon knew well, one that often meant his brother was planning something wholly unbecoming of a prince.

“How about, once you’ve learned the ice-disk technique too, we play a little game. The first one to hit the other with a disk wins.” Robb looked to Jon proudly, as though he had just single-handedly invented Cyvasse.

Jon only rolled his eyes. “Do you want to get us killed?” He said in exasperation. “Besides, Father would never allow such a game. He says bending is a serious matter not to be taken lightly.”

It was Robb’s turn to roll his eyes. “Jon, I swear sometimes all you seem to say is ‘Father this’ or ‘Father that’. Besides, he doesn’t even have to know about it. You don’t have to tell him everything we do.” Robb said with an eye-roll of his own.

Jon pondered over Robb’s words throughout lunch, content to eat in silence while his brother was engrossed by some tale Theon was spinning about a recent trip to Wintertown. By the time Jon made it to his usual afternoon refuge of the godswood, nestling himself in between the giant roots of the heart tree beside the pond, he had realised what about Robb’s accusations had struck him so oddly. Jon did seem to hold his father’s word in higher esteem than Robb, to the point of treating it almost as if it were law. Jon supposed that his father was the king, so this wasn’t far from the truth in practice, but more to the point was the fact that Robb seemed more relaxed in his moments of rebellion against the wishes of their father.

Jon hadn’t realised this before, but upon reflection couldn’t think of a single instance where he had directly broken a rule set out by his father. Robb, on the other hand, seemed content to push at those boundaries, often attempting to rope Jon into his games with varying degrees of success. Perhaps that was simply the untempered confidence of a prince, of a boy who’d never felt that his place in his home was conditional.

It frustrated Jon somewhat to still be finding differences between himself and Robb like this. A bastard had to tread much more lightly than a trueborn son. Sometimes it felt that, aside from Robb, the king was the only ally Jon had in the castle, the only person who would look twice if he were thrown out of the gates kicking and screaming. Even if such a possibility was, in reality, naught more than an unpleasant dream, Jon still felt the pressure to ensure he did nothing to inspire such a punishment. 

For Robb, it was now clear, no such concerns would even come to mind and Jon was suddenly sure that had their namedays been switched, Robb would have already tried to bend on his own. As Jon looked out to the still pool of water before him, the white bark and red leaves of the heart tree overhead reflected in its otherwise black surface, he realised that Robb may have even secretly tried to bend right near where Jon was now sitting by the pond. 

The thought filled Jon with the sudden urge to do something similar, to stand up and actually perform one of the many motions he had perfected in his mind’s eye. His eyes closed, as if blocking out the image of the pond would curtail its seduction. The godswood, the sacred site of his father’s gods, of his gods, was the last place he would want to break northern custom, and in doing so break a promise he had made to his father

As in the past, the godswood had proved a frequent refuge for Jon. It was seldom used by anyone other than Father, and Jon would often find himself there when needing to clear his head. Just as it was now, the pool beneath the heart tree would sometimes make this difficult, as even when Jon closed his eyes he could feel the water calling out to him. The temptation to answer back was always difficult to resist, but Father’s words would always ring through Jon’s head, quelling such desires quickly. Jon’s fear of allowing himself to fully give in to what it was he could sense made the sensation hard to describe. Not that he had ever wished to talk with someone about it, but even thinking about the sensation within his own head proved a challenge. Words simply didn’t seem to be fully capable of capturing what it was he felt.

Focusing on that feeling now though, somewhat emboldened rather than cautious as he usually was when this connection was present, Jon let the sensation wash over him. It was as if he could sense the water, feel it pressing up against him, though in a way that was entirely unique to a physical touch. Jon tried to push back, and felt the pressure recede somewhat, then pulled until the pressure was greater than it had been before. 

He kept doing this for some time. Pushing and pulling, toying with the tension he felt to test it’s limits. Eventually he found that when he timed his pulls and pushes with the in and out of his breath, the more controlled the feeling was. Eventually, at the deepest point of an inhale, Jon held his breath, stomach drawn tight and chest pushed out. It was more than simply an impression of the water against him now, but a physical strain upon his body, as if each muscle was tensing with the exertion of whatever force he was exerting.

A drop of water hit Jon’s cheek. 

_ Where would water be coming from?  _

His eyes flew open to see a wall of water mere inches before him, swirling slowly over itself in a frozen wave, as if it were trapped within an invisible confine, stuck within a singular moment in time. Sunlight illuminated the crest of the swell, which rose high above the canopy of nearby trees. The fish which now swam in confused circles amongst the branches near the wave’s peak sent shadows flickering across Jon’s face and the leafy godswood floor around him.

A growing, tight, pain in his chest had Jon realise that he’d yet released his inhale, and a cry of shock escaped Jon’s lips with his breath. At this the water crashed down in a thunderous roar, drenching him in the initial outwards splash as it flooded the ground beneath him. At its furthest point the water had spread so far around him that, for a moment, Jon thought he had destroyed the godswood entirely. But just as quickly as it rushed out, the water ebbed back towards the crater that had been left in its absence, reforming the pond which Jon had temporarily displaced.

The trickle of dripping water filled the usually silent godswood with what felt like a cacophony of sound to Jon’s still stunned senses. His breath was short and sharp, chest tight from the shock of cold. He didn’t understand what had just happened, what he’d just done. None of it was intentional, of that he was certain. Still, he didn’t think that anyone else would care of his intent once they saw the evidence of what had happened there. Surely they would discover it soon enough. Aside from Jon himself, someone must have heard the crashing of the wave against the godswood floor, perhaps even seen it from above the treeline. Guards were probably running towards him at that very moment, and Jon for the life of him had not the faintest idea of how he would explain what had happened. 

The truth was a whisper in the back of Jon’s mind, one that, if he was being honest, had been present well before he had opened his eyes to the sight of water before him.

He had been waterbending.

It was an inescapable realistion, really. No matter the angle at which Jon tried to maneuver himself out of it, there was no other explanation for what he had felt, for what he had done. Any elation Jon may have felt at such a discovery was quashed by the fact that he had failed to uphold the one request his father had made of him last they spoke.  _ What kind of son was he? _ Mayhaps her grace had been right all along. Jon was dangerous. He couldn’t control his power as a waterbender, hadn’t even been aware he was bending in the first place. The horrible thought of Arya or Bran being caught in that wave surfaced within him, the image of his sibling’s forms, bloated and blue-lipped, floated limp in his mind’s eye like a drowned man’s corpse. It was too much - the shame, the fear. Both left him incapacited, unable to move save for the shivers which wracked his frame.

Not even the sound of approaching steps could stir movement within Jon’s frozen limbs, nor tear his undoubtedly wide eyes from the now calm pool of water before him. He wasn’t even sure what he would do if he were capable of motion. Run seemed the most obvious choice, but where to? Away from Winterfell? He would be dead within the days in his current state, the cold would take him. That somehow seemed less frightening an option than running the opposite way, towards his father and the approaching men. Perhaps such a path stirred more fear within Jon because it was what he truly wanted to do. To beg for forgiveness, to seek answers for what had happened, or something wholly more simple, he wasn't sure. Regardless, rejection from his father was something that Jon did not think he could bear. Seeking out the king’s comfort was a privilege Jon never truly felt he had the right to exercise, certainly not in the same way his siblings did, who would run for their parents whenever the comfort they provided was needed. So, doing just that in a moment of weakness, only to be met with rejection would prove sharper a sting than the coldest of waters upon one's skin.

It wasn’t until he felt the warmth of a large cloak wrapped around him, and the deep burr of his father’s voice that Jon felt the iron grip of shock loosen its hold from his now violently shivering form. The words spoken were lost to him, but the gentleness with which they were spoken calmed the fears that had played part in his paralysis moments before. When strong arms lifted his prone form from the muddy ground, Jon’s limbs fell limp and his head throbbed from the sickening spinning of the world around him, a blur of green and red against the grey of an overcast sky. Succumbing to the fatigue of body and mind, his eyes slipped closed and darkness swallowed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought in the comments! I know the story progress is still quite slow but things will speed up soon, I promise.


End file.
